


Discretion: Rarely belongs to a cat

by Eorendel



Series: These Spies Are Always Chasing (Es Su Onda) [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bonding, Dangerous thoughts, Illya is conflicted, Irrationality and understanding, M/M, Napoleon is a Tease, Pre-Slash, Revelations, Touching, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, but this time doesn't even know it, lazy afternoons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7366276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eorendel/pseuds/Eorendel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya ponders about serious matters while Napoleon lazes about and being his natural distracting self. Illya is conflicted and Napoleon is showing too much skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discretion: Rarely belongs to a cat

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you again to [TheVeilwalkerWitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeilwalkerWitch/) for everything!

Illya himself doesn't quite understand what it is that attracts him. On one hand, he has Gaby, small and soft-looking but a hurricane in all senses, powerful and straightforward, rough and abrasive but extremely sweet and innocent as a child.

And on the other hand, he has this "creature". He thinks this as he watches Napoleon's profile, who is currently taking a nap on a chair near the veranda of their hotel, while their mission is on cool down – the nerve. This thief, ex-soldier and complete womanizer, is another thing that attracts him. Apparently. Gaby tells him as such.

He doesn't believe it at first. There is no way he could, Napoleon is the complete opposite of Illya. Where Illya is methodical and professional, Napoleon is spontaneous and incompetent – _granted_ , only by Illya's standards. And it's not only that, there are thousands of little things that irk Illya to no end.

And yet, here in Tuscany, where the sunset is almost golden, stays Napoleon basking in the light like a cat. His skin looks flushed and inviting; his shirt is unbuttoned and his stomach lays on display for anyone to see; his jaw – usually clean shaven – is sporting a three-day beard. It darkens his features, making him look older, and Illya finds himself liking it a little bit too much.

Napoleon moves on his spot, taking a breath and turning his head to the side, giving Illya a tantalizing view of his neck. Illya wonders how would it feel like to sink his teeth on that neck and leave a mark in a place where anyone could see.

Illya shifts in his seat. He frowns and stands, hands twitching as he gets close to Napoleon. He stares at the peaceful face, because it is. For once, it doesn't seem as if Napoleon's faking rest. Gaby and Illya had talked about it before, about how Napoleon despite his easy going personality, seems to carry a great burden unwilling to share.

What could have made this day different that had made him change?

He doesn't stop to think much about it, he crouches down – staring up close to those pink lips – clears his throat and says, "Cowboy, wake up."

There's no immediate response, he tries once again, "Cowboy, wake up and move from that chair."

Finally stirring from his sleep, Napoleon takes a deep breath and turns his head to Illya's voice, eyes still half-lidded.

"What is it?" He slurs with more charm than should be possible.

"You are going to get sunburn, move from there." Illya manages to say.

Napoleon makes a little dismissal sound and closes his eyes again.

" _Napoleon_." Illya says his name as a warning.

Napoleon frowns with his eyes closed and actually pouts, lips pursing slightly in protest.

"No." He says petulantly.

Illya tries to count to ten.

Next, Napoleon glances at Illya, eyes soft and sad, as if Illya was the bad guy of this story, and says, "There's sunscreen in my bag."

Illya repeats the number eight in his mind three times. And then realizes that Napoleon is expecting him to go get the bottle. He tries to count to twenty.

But then, in a strange moment, Napoleon says in a gentle tone, "Please?"

Before he knows it, Illya has gone and come back with the cursed sunscreen. He honestly doesn't expect the boldness — death wish — that Napoleon has when he, quite daringly, stretches his arm to Illya; clearly, he expects Illya to follow the normal order of things.

Illya is tempted to take that arm and break it in two. But, at the same time, the same arm and skin invites him to touch and feel. It's a rare moment that might never appear again. So, without much thought, he applies a generous amount of sunscreen on his hands and then runs them along Napoleon's arm.

As expected the skin is warm and somewhat soft, not quite like Gaby's but not as rough as Illya's himself. Napoleon is pliant throughout the process, and while Illya should be wondering if applying sunscreen to one's fellow spy is acceptable, he instead relishes in the taut flesh and the firmness of the muscle under his fingertips.

Napoleon is beautiful, Illya concludes absentmindedly, his hands particularly so; Illya turns them over, inspecting them in the same way he inspects his weapons.

His eyes travel to Napoleon's chest and downward to his marked abs. Illya doesn't concern himself with the the hows or the whys of his sudden increase in his own body temperature.

Napoleon doesn't flinch when Illya's hands travel down on his belly but he does squirm lightly when Illya tries to slide them on his side.

"Ticklish?" Illya asks with certain satisfaction.

"I'm not." Napoleon says unconvincingly.

After a few tries – where Napoleon moves away from his touch – Illya takes mercy on him. Somehow, during this process Illya has made himself some room on the chair beside Napoleon.

Napoleon is pleasantly watching Illya from his spot, looking up at him without any sort of uncertainty or fear, and that somehow irks Illya.

_He shouldn't be showing this vulnerability to anyone_ , Illya thinks, and then the sudden thought of Napoleon doing the same with someone else flashes through his mind. His hand around Napoleon's neck, fingertips feeling his pulse, twitches.

It will be so easy to kill him, so easy for Illya; he has done it for most of his life. The pressure around Napoleon's neck increases.

Napoleon regards him with half-lidded eyes, the calm of Illya's ministrations provided slowly fading.

Illya's voice is hard when he asks, "You have a death wish?"

There is silence between them. Illya doesn't know what he’s going to do next. He doesn’t know what what he feels. He just waits.

"I'm good. Thanks." And he tilts his head to the side to involuntarily nuzzle Illya’s hand. "First time I've felt this good."

There's a reassurance in that last thing he says, something even Illya isn't even aware he needed to know. Since when is Illya such an open book for Napoleon to read?

Illya doesn't move. He just stares back. His thumb rubs lightly over the skin of Napoleon’s cheekbone.

"You good?"

Illya doesn't do apologies.

"Yes."

Napoleon doesn't care.

"Good."

It's a good match.


End file.
